


monster (a)

by springhand



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Character Analysis, Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springhand/pseuds/springhand
Summary: 0. one who deviates from normal or acceptable behavior or character.
Kudos: 4





	monster (a)

**birth (n)**  
_1\. a beginning or commencement._

The moment of his birth was the moment of someone's death.

That's how it started. A small kid, barely a few hours alive, whose fate had already been doomed simply by being born. It wasn't his fault. He didn't ask for it. He had done nothing wrong. He hadn't done anything _yet_ , but people already cursed his existence. People he didn't know, people who didn't know of him; those people hated this boy, this young kid who was only a few hours old. His mother had died. His father had a grin on his face and blood on his clothes. This kid didn't know. This kid couldn't hear. He couldn't hear the yells of people who were against his existence. He couldn't hear the gunshots, the screams of panic, the sounds of rushed footsteps. He couldn't hear anything.

Twilights were often born with some kind of deficiency, and the price for being born was his sense of hearing.

His father, Gaston Brown, was a white American. He was a mercenary from the West Gate who had impregnated his mother, an unnamed Thai Chinese descendant Twilight prostitute, who was killed upon Nicolas Brown's birth. From then on, the stray - half Twilight half Normal - had been raised under an abusive household who taught him nothing but how to behave. He could have been dead. He could have died before he was even formed in his mother's womb. But Twilights were slaves, murderers, human weapons. They were things to be used by Normals in war, and were discarded when served no further purposes. Nicolas Brown was just the same, even at a young age.

He was a slave.  
A murderer.  
A human weapon.  
A thing.  
**A monster.**

But Nicolas Brown had grown used to it. He had grown used to those words, as well as accepted them. Perhaps it was his condition, but Nicolas Brown had never fought back, although he could. He had the power. Twilights were stronger than Normals. They were machines, weapons, murderers, _assassins_. They knew only how to fight and how to kill, they were violent and destructive and they _loved_ it. Nicolas Brown was another of them, and he could easily break his abusive father's neck. He could be free.

But just like slaves could run away when given the chance, they didn't.

Because there was something their owner had that made it impossible for them to be ever free. For a Twilight, it was the Celebre. If not taken daily, they can easily die. Gaston Brown knew that. Gaston Brown took advantage of it to train his son, his own personal human weapon. Gaston Brown wanted that thing to grow into an adult, so he could simply _sell_ it. 

_"If he tries to run away, he'll die._  
_If he dares to rebel, he won't get his fix."_

And Gaston Brown was a clever man. The dosage given to Nicolas was nearly enough so he could walk, let alone use his powers. It was a single tablet, but without it, Nicolas Brown would be a dead man. 

But even if he could, even if there was a way he could get Celebre at age of twelve by himself, he would not. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, or perhaps whatever else, but Nicolas Brown did not wish to leave his father. The same man who often beat him up, spanked him, kicked him, stepped on him; that was the man he had to call captain, the man he had to respect, listen and never betray. The man who saw him as something less than human, something even less than an insect. That was the same man Nicolas wanted to call _father_.

He couldn't. He wasn't allowed. He wasn't human. To call that man anything other than captain would result in him being scolded, or yelled at, or kicked, or beaten, or called names that, while Nicolas Brown was used to them, still hurt him deep down. Nicolas Brown was a thing without feelings; he didn't experience sadness, or happiness, or anger, or confusion, or anything else. Nicolas Brown was a machine, a brainless thing, a weapon capable of mass murder. And weapons did not have a mother or a father, nor they had the necessity to have one.

To Gaston Brown, Nicolas Brown did not have a father.

**human (a)**  
_2\. of, relating to, or characteristic of people or human beings._

At age of twelve, he was assigned as Wallace Arcangelo's bodyguard. At age of twelve, he had met someone his age, if a year older. At age of twelve, everything he had ever known changed.

Wallace Arcangelo was a strange boy. He was used to being around grown up mercenaries, fighters, killers, and being put as a rich boy's bodyguard had been an exquisite change in atmosphere. The boy whose hair contrasted with his own had a weird habit of getting hurt in the most ridiculous ways. When he fell down, he would get an enormous bruise on his eye. When Nicolas fell down, he would get at least a scratch on his knee. But he didn't question it; he couldn't, he wasn't allowed. He would only ask how, and nothing more. 

But all the same when he showed up with a new, massive bruise on his body, Nicolas could only do the same. It wasn't his fault, of course, he didn't fall or anything like that. It had a reason, that even if he could talk, he wouldn't. If asked, he would say he fell as well. At some point, he had realized it was the same with Wallace. He didn't question, he didn't pry on it, he said nothing. He could only be confused. He was the monster, he was the thing, it was alright for him to be spanked or stepped on. Wallace? He was human, he was a Normal. Why would he go through the same as himself?

Nicolas Brown didn't relate to Wallace Arcangelo, but if he were a Normal, perhaps he would have.

Eventually, Wallace Arcangelo started asking from him more than he could offer. He had asked for his name, said something about his father and if he had ordered Nicolas not to speak with him. He was visibly angry, which Nicolas could not understand. Upon letting the other know he was deaf, and so he could not hear well - let alone speak well -, Wallace did only as much as throw a book at him and leave.

He had assumed Wallace wanted him to read the book, but he couldn't.

When he went over to the boy's room, he was greeted with a hard object to the nose (he doesn't remember what it was, and he doubted he had even looked at it). Wallace _apologized_ to him countless times - something that never had happened before. Nicolas Brown was used to being hurt by others if he weren't on the battlefield. It was normal, it was part of his routine, it was nothing to get angry or sad at. He had only brushed it aside and given the book back. He couldn't read. He couldn't speak well. He couldn't hear. All he could do was fight and kill; all a monster knew how to do.

Yet, that was the first time Wallace Arcangelo had properly introduced himself to him, as well as inquired his own name.

The following days were something unreal. As a bodyguard, as well as a Twilight, he would do whatever his current master would ask. He was a human weapon, a slave, something that didn't have a will of his own. His purpose outside the battlefield was to obey the Normals and never complain, never whimper, never speak. That's what his life was for, nothing more, nothing less. But Wallace Arcangelo was a strange boy. Gaston Brown had never given as much as ten minutes attention to his son, while Wallace Arcangelo gave him most of it. Wallace Arcangelo had as well convinced himself that he would teach a thing, a human weapon, a monster, a killer how to write. How to read. How to do _human_ things.

There was no reason for him to learn such basic, human things, yet he didn't complain. If this is what a Normal, what his master wanted him to do, then he would do without so much of a whimper.

At some point, Nicolas Brown must've forgotten what he truly was. Wallace Arcangelo started being gentle and nice, and dedicated most of his time teaching his bodyguard how to write. Although he was fairly bad at it, there wasn't a single time the other gave up on him. There wasn't a single time he yelled at him. There wasn't a single time he laughed at him. He had tried his best to teach Nicolas how to be human, how to write and understand written language. There was no purpose for it, he couldn't find one, but eventually, at some point in time, he had started to appreciate it. To like it. To _enjoy_ it. Even if he saw it as nothing but an order from his master, even when they were not together, Nicolas Brown would practice his handwriting whenever he could. Outside, at lunch time, with a wooden stick.

He was taking pleasure in it, and despite the lack of expression, he was grateful for it. Nicolas Brown genuinely liked it, this play-pretend.

_"It feels like I'm talking to something... distinct,  
like an animal or a machine. Something that isn't...  
human."_

Nicolas Brown was not human.

Regardless of what he was taught, it was an universal fact: he could never be, or pretend to be, human. Wallace Arcangelo could teach him many things, but in the end, Nicolas Brown would go back to his father's side like a good slave, a good machine, a good trained dog. For twelve years, all he had ever known was how to fight, how to kill, how to behave. Basic concepts such as writing and reading were useless. Machines didn't need to read or write. Killers could live a life without reading or writing. Things were only things. And Nicolas Brown was a thing, a killer, a machine. He wasn't good at writing, he struggled to read and even when he was taught how to smoke, he didn't enjoy it. What he was good at was piercing his enemies with his sword and killing them. He was good at spilling blood, and nothing else.

_"This thing's job is not child guarding.  
It is killing and dying on behalf of humans,  
nothing more, nothing less."_

But even if Nicolas Brown was aware of his nature, he had the opportunity to live what humans lived, to see what humans saw, to be what humans were. Even if he was a monster, a machine, a human weapon, a slave, perhaps now he had acquired a new title, a new position to add to the list of things he was.

\-- No, he had always been that. It was in his blood, it was how he was born. The dog tags around his neck spoke one thing, but his blood spoke another. In the end, there was no way anyone could change that. In the end, Wallace Arcangelo had changed him somehow.

In the end, Nicolas Brown was a monster, a machine, a human weapon, a slave, and a _half-human_.

**abandonment (n)**  
_3\. the action or fact of abandoning or being abandoned._

A stray was a Twilight born between another Twilight and a Normal. There are no known advantages or disadvantages that strays might have against Twilights born between two Twilights, other than the slightly longer lifespan. The classification in their tag, as in their letter and number, varies depending on their strength. Just like that, a stray could be much stronger than a "pure Twilight". There are no unfairness, no advantages or disadvantages.

One of the reasons might be because strays, regardless if they were half Twilight, half human, were seen as only Twilights. Only as monsters. Only as things to be used.

And Nicolas Brown was the son of a human with a stray. His body had less Twilight blood than it had human blood. He should be considered much more human than a monster, but that didn't matter for Normals. A Twilight would always be a Twilight, with only a quarter of their blood or all of it. 

After so many years, Nicolas Brown didn't question it. There could be even the possibility that he wasn't aware of his mother's nature. But with the intervention of Wallace Arcangelo, the human half of his body was much more visible, much stronger than his Twilight half. He was not human - he could never be -, but he was _a bit_ human. Half human. _Somewhat_ human. He had feelings, he had a will, he could perfectly behave like a human. What differed him from them was his dependency on Celebre, the Twilight-only drug that kept him alive, that kept him sane. 

And truth be told, Nicolas Brown had gotten carried away in the few days that he was taught basic human knowledge. He had learned how to read (not very well, but enough that he could understand that one sign language book Wallace had given him), he wasn't the best at writing but he still could, either way, and he had even learned how to play cards, even if Wallace hated him for always winning somehow. Nicolas Brown had been living like a normal human, like someone who wasn't a monster, a thing, a machine or a human weapon. He was being treated like he was a Normal, like he had feelings, like he had his own will.

Somewhere along the line, he had believed he had feelings, he had a will, he could be human.

In that same sign language book Wallace had given him, the same book he almost lost in the battlefield, the same book he hurt himself beyond necessary to rescue, he had read the words _family_ and _father_ on the same page. 

**family (n)**  
_3.1 a group consisting of parents and children living together in a household._

**father (n)**  
_3.2 a man in relation to his natural child or children._

Gaston Brown.  
His family.  
His father.  
His captain.  
His...  
His... ?

The grass was wet. The rain was cold. Without his sword or even shoes, Nicolas Brown went after the West Gate mercenaries, who were about to leave for another mission, for Ergastulum. He had to go with them. He was part of their group, of their team. He didn't want to be left behind only because of his injuries. He could fight. He had to. He was a weapon, a thing, a machine. His duty was to kill and die on behalf of humans - hadn't his own _father_ said so?

But it hadn't been like that.

They didn't need him.  
The captain didn't _need_ him.

_Father... ?_

_"Don't try to act human,  
monster."_

He was right. Nicolas Brown had forgotten, he got carried away. There was no chance he could be anything other than a monster, a thing, a machine. His own father saw him as nothing but a monster. He wasn't his son. He wasn't loved. He wasn't necessary. He was useless. He was broken. He had tried to be human, something he wasn't, something he would never be.

He was a thing bought by Wallace Arcangelo, and had finally, after twelve years, been fully abandoned by the only family he had.

Nicolas Brown was not human, or a half-human. 

Nicolas Brown was a monster, through and through.

**kill (v)**  
_4\. put an end to or cause the failure or defeat of (something)._

Nothing at all changed.

Wallace Arcangelo was still getting hurt every once in a while, but this time, he had told Nicolas it was his father's doing. Nicolas Brown changed guilds, being now part of the North Gate, but he was still treated like a thing; _deserving_ , as he was one. 

But at some point, Nicolas Brown had stopped caring. Being now only attached to his master, who was often mistreated by his father, he could only see one solution.

_"Kill?"_

He doesn't remember his answer. He doesn't remember if Wallace Arcangelo had agreed with it or not. All he remembers was slicing anyone who was before him; maids, mercenaries, bodyguards, anyone. Every single person who had tried to stop him would die. Nicolas Brown could not see anything, could not think anything other than kill, murder, destroy. That's what he was born for, what he was good at, what he knew how to do. And he killed.

And he killed.  
And he killed.  
And he killed.  
And he killed.

He didn't know how many people had it been. How many heads he had decapitated, how many bodies he had slaughtered, how much blood he could see. His body moved automatically, instinctively. If there were a single person alive, he would kill. Women, men, children. It didn't matter. Whoever it was, he would kill them. Kill. Kill. Kill. _Kill. Kill. Kill_.

He had killed so many people, even his sword had broken.

Everyone in the mansion was dead. Nicolas Brown made sure to kill all of them. Everyone was dead, other than Wallace Arcangelo and himself. Everyone. _Everyone... ?_ No. No, he was wrong. There was someone else alive. Someone else who deserved to die. Someone else who had no other purpose. Had he not fulfilled his last will? Wallace Arcangelo was now free of any burdens. Nicolas made sure he had killed his father, the one man Wallace was so afraid of, the maids, who would often talk badly about him, the mercenaries, the rest of his family, everyone. He had freed his master of the pain that for so long had tormented him.

And now he had to kill the last person who had made him suffer, the last person connected to him.

_Nicolas Brown._

_"I'll never forgive you... for what you've done! As if I'd let you die! Did you think I'd let you die so easily?! You'll die full of painful memories! The agonizing memories will kill you when the time comes! Just like what you did to my step-mother and Michel, just like what you did to my father...! That's your fate, understand? That is your fate...!!"_

His death was not allowed. Nicolas Brown had to die, but he had been unable to kill himself. His master said so. His contractor. The person who he slaughtered a whole mansion for had not permitted his death to happen. He had been cursed. He could only die painfully.

He could not die yet, even though he had to.

And he didn't.

**home (a)**  
_5\. a place where one is suitable and look right in it._

A few days after that incident, Nicolas Brown and Wallace Arcangelo moved to Ergastulum, the home of all kinds of problematic people. Murderers, rapists, assassins, orphans, Twilights. Ergastulum is no safe place, but for Wallace and Nicolas, it was much more like home than their originally home had been.

People had believed Wallace to have been kidnapped. The newspaper often said the second eldest son of the Arcangelo family was taken hostage by a little mercenary boy the family had employed. Whether that was true or not, neither of them cared. Ergastulum was heaven for troublemakers. It would be in that new place that Wallace Arcangelo and Nicolas Brown would start their new lives.

At some point, Wallace Arcangelo became Worick Arcangelo. He had started a job as a gigolo, taking clients at age of thirteen before being quickly admitted by Big Mama of the Pussy Brothel. Nicolas Brown, on the other hand, had started taking odd jobs as a mercenary. Sometimes he was asked to do delivery, other times to murder someone. It was always fickle, and it took only a short amount of time for him to get used to it. It took only a short amount of time for both boys to get used to that new lifestyle.

At some point, years later, both boys had started their own independent business called _Benriya_.

Despite what had happened between them, they had grown to be close friends. Co-workers. Partners. Worick Arcangelo is the only _(?)_ person who fully understands Nicolas. Nicolas Brown is the only person who fully understands Worick. They bicker, they tease each other, they share clothes, an apartment, meals, and others. They are friends before they are the contractor and the slave, the master and the monster. They are partners, before they are the victim and the murderer.

And Nicolas Brown, despite being a thing, has made friends in the many years he had spent in that city. He had met people who had helped not only him but Worick as well when they had just moved. He had met people who had given him a permanent job despite his true nature, people who were much more of a father to him than Gaston Brown had ever been. He had met people who would treat his wounds and offer him the drug to keep him alive, people who would try to keep him alive regardless of what happened. He had met people who he cared for despite the age difference, people who he would go out of his way to buy a single drink that would make them happy whenever they came over. He had met people who were just like him. He had met people who _(?)_

Unlike his twelve year old self, Nicolas Brown grew to be someone with a personality. When young, all he knew was how to behave, how to listen to his father and do what he was told. At age of thirty four, Nicolas Brown is much more. He is reckless, and he doesn't listen to everybody. He is a man who likes to tease others, especially weaker, fragile people; people he knows are afraid of him. After all, at first sight, Nicolas Brown is a terrifying man. He is a tagged, a dog, a monster, a Twilight.

But before all of that, Nicolas Brown is a person. In the twenty two years he had lived in that country, he had learned much more of the world than he had before. Nicolas Brown, the monster, the slave, the human machine, had grown to be a kind man, a cat lover, a bully. His small acts of kindness, of course, aren't for everyone. He is kind but he is not very honest about said kindness; he looks very disinterested towards many things, towards _most_ things, but he pays attention. His eyes make up for his ears, and he sees much more than most.

At the same time, Nicolas Brown is a teaser, that same kindness being if only a myth. He listens to only a few selective people, and he loves to bully new people, but never in a personal way. He does because this is what he is like, because he doesn't take them seriously. They are afraid of him, and while they have a reason to be, Nicolas Brown is far from being the monster he once was. He has acquired a sense of humor that his younger self would never even think of acquiring.

Compared to the person he once was, Nicolas Brown is much more alive.

He has friends, he has a partner, a job he is content with, a life he does not hate. He has a place to belong, and his days are filled with excitement and fun. While he lives his life doing deliveries and jobs from the underworld, Nicolas Brown is still a Twilight, still a murderer, still a monster.

He still kills, he still murders, he still fights for fun and he _loves_ it. Ergastulum isn't a safe country. Ergastulum is not a place for innocent people. Those who have a problematic past, those who are running from it; those are the kind of people who belong in there. Those kinds of people, and Twilights. After all, Ergastulum was originally a cage for them, made by the government itself.

There are many like him, many stronger than him. There are many who want to kill him, who would fight him, many who he has to fight, who he is asked to defeat. And he willingly will, because he loves it. Twilights love to fight, they love to kill. They're monsters, they're violent and destructive. Nicolas Brown is one of them. The stronger his opponent is, the more fun he will have. He will tease them, he will smile, he will have a fun time. He will be much more alive than he has always been.

Ergastulum is the perfect place for Nicolas Brown, and he _loves_ it. 

**stranger (n)**  
_6\. one who is neither a friend nor an acquaintance._

She was _loot_.  
That's everything she was.  
She wasn't a friend, an acquaintance, a relative. She was a selfish request.  
She was a woman, a human, an initial bother.

Alex Benedetto was a prostitute whose favorite spot was near Benriya's windows. It has been more than one occasion that both Worick Arcangelo and Nicolas Brown had seen her there, either doing her work or simply sitting on the stairs. They weren't neighbors, they weren't friends, they weren't acquaintances. They were nothing.

After a job from an old friend, they had become _enemies_.

Her life was supposed to end that day, right there, where she liked to be. Worick Arcangelo should've been the one responsible for her death, while Nicolas Brown was the one responsible for her pimp's death. But he should have seen it coming. His partner had been unable to get the job done, and his foolish personality had convinced Nicolas Brown to accept that woman as loot.

Part of him had seen it coming as they had accepted that job. Part of him had considered that from the beginning.

He had been kind to her earlier that day. After one of her services with an arrogant client, she had come out of an alley with a bloody face. Despite looking uninterested, Nicolas Brown had been the one to give her a handkerchief. She was not a friend, an acquaintance, or a relative.

She was only a woman.  
Alex Benedetto. Former prostitute, current secretary at Benriya.  
She was a strange woman.

There wasn't anything necessarily interesting about her. It wasn't her dark, long hair, or her bright, blue eyes, or her dark, smooth skin. It wasn't her big boobs, her perfect curves, her round ass, her thick thighs. There wasn't anything about her that caught his attention, but there was something about her that made Nicolas Brown uncomfortable.

It was how much she reminded him of _(?)_

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her, but her presence there was unsettling. It was nerve-wracking. It was suffocating. But Nicolas Brown had accepted it knowing the consequences. Perhaps he had hoped for a different ending, perhaps he knew he couldn't win against Worick's pleas, perhaps he hadn't thought she would bring back memories that should not be back.

It wasn't her fault, but he still kept a distance between them that would be both safer for him and for her.

She was a stubborn woman.

There was something about himself that caught her attention. People were often scared of him at first, but Alex Benedetto was drawn to him when she should not be. Was it the dog tags? He had supposed so. It was a bother, an annoyance, _unsettling_. She should not be there, and her presence there was nothing but stressful. But even so, Nicolas Brown still looked after her once in a while. When she needed a hand, he would lend two. When she made inquiries, though not often, he would answer her. He was much more distant to her since she had joined than Worick, who had quickly grown close to her.

He had supposed it was the resemblance of their jobs.

But as distant as Nicolas Brown was of Alex Benedetto, he still made sure she was safe. He still enjoyed the little things she would do. The food she would cook. The songs she would sing. He was a deaf man since birth, but he would lean his head next to speakers if it meant listening, even if the slightest bit, to the voice of the woman who so often annoyed him.

He would help her.  
He would look after her.  
He would give her the support necessary to handle the TB side-effects.

Alex Benedetto was a woman, a human, a former prostitute, a selfish request and the new member of Benriya.

**(?) (?)**  
_7\. (?)_

At some point since they came to Ergastulum, they met a woman named _Veronica._

She was a Twilight just like Nicolas Brown, her rank unknown. In fact, there barely was anything about her. She was as expressionless as he was, like all hope had left her. Just like him. She was almost a mirrored image of him, and it both was unsettling as it was the first time the man had related to anybody.

He had been extremely careless.

_"Do you want to end up like Veronica?"_

He grins and says nothing. It was often that, whenever Nicolas Brown was reckless and careless, people would namedrop Veronica. They would try to guilt him, and it would work, but he never let them know.

Veronica was a woman, a Twilight, a monster, a thing, his _(?)_.

And many often say that it was his fault she had died, despite her being not dead.

She was only painfully close to death, and it may have been his fault.

For being careless.  
For being reckless.  
For overdosing.  
For being a _monster_.

She was the one who would hold his hand when he was in the hospital, the one who would keep him company when Worick wasn't around. She was something to him that it would seem weird for others. She was a sick woman, always wrapped in bandages, always hurt, always looking like she did not care. She was a quiet woman, who knew sign language enough to communicate with him. She was someone, the only one, who Nicolas Brown allowed to touch him so tenderly. So closely. So lovingly.

She liked to touch him, but it had been likely his fault she had lost her right arm.

But she still touched him.  
She still stayed with him.  
She still looked like she had nothing else to lose.

Veronica had overdosed once and it was one of the reasons she ended up in an isolated room at Big Mama's place. She wasn't an employer, but it was the only place she could stay at. Whenever Worick Arcangelo would visit his former boss, Nicolas Brown would bow before the woman (according to Thai culture, it was a gesture expressing _gratitude_ ), thanking her - likely - for taking care of what was left of who once was the Twilight Veronica.

And while he was disliked by many, if not all of the employers in that place, his only business there would be to visit the woman who once stayed by his bed whenever he was hurt. She was too sick to move, too sick to speak, too sick to get up, too sick to stay alive. She barely ate, she barely existed. 

Alex Benedetto resembled Veronica more than Nicolas would like to admit. He often saw the woman in her. When she was about to cook them food, when she was next to his bed waiting for him to recover from his injuries, when she was trying to calm him down from an overdose. Alex Benedetto was not Veronica, not a replacement, not a chance for redemption.

Looking at Alex Benedetto would bring back memories of times that could never come back. It could be a sign, a warning for him not to commit the same mistakes. The distance he had put between the both of them was justified. The reason was Veronica.

It was all because of Veronica. For Veronica. Due Veronica. Since Veronica.

He didn't want to hurt a woman, a Normal. He didn't want to see another woman wrapped in bandages, with only an arm, in a bed taking medicines for twenty four hours, barely being able to eat, to exist. He didn't want to be engulfed in feelings of guilt and self-hatred anymore, he didn't want those feelings to be doubled as he hurt another woman who had gotten way too close to him.

He was a Twilight, a monster, a thing, a human weapon. Not a human, not someone to be approached, not someone to be treated carefully and touched tenderly.

But those women continued, those women were stubborn, those women didn't listen. One had already been enough, and to protect Alex Benedetto from the monster he was, he had put a distance between them. A distance that she tried her hardest to break, but a distance he would not let her ruin.

_"You'd better not stay with Benriya too long."_

They would warn her, but she would not listen. If Veronica had been warned, he had doubted she would have left. Some would say it was her fault for staying so close to a Twilight, but she was one. She was a monster, a thing, a human weapon, a hopeless being. She was like him, she was dead inside. She was expressionless, she was hopeless, she was a perfect image of what he was years ago. She was hurt, but she was beautiful, she was strong but she was quiet.

Veronica was a lot of things.

For everyone else, she was dead.  
For Nicolas Brown, she was his _responsibility_.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this for an application to a forum RP. Yes, I wrote a 5.6k application on Nicolas Brown. I'm not quite sure if this could be considered a character study, because it's honestly just sort of a retelling of his life, but I actually like my writing for this, so I decided to post it as a character study.
> 
> I miss Gangsta, and I miss writing Nic. Enjoy.


End file.
